


Satin and Lace

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, But We're Talking About Quatre Here So It's Not Much Of A Stretch, Canon Compliant, Drama, Feminization, Fluff, Gender Identity, Genderqueer, Other, Post-Endless Waltz, Romance, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know when it started. He didn't understand why it was considered bad. All he wanted was to feel pretty. To feel the silky satin and the rough scratch of lace against his skin. All he wanted was to feel loved and accepted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discoveries and War

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story based on a personal headcanon that Quatre may identify as genderqueer, genderfluid, or androgynous. This headcanon is based solely on his behavior and mannerisms in canon. Obviously, it's not confirmed by an official source and neither is his sexuality, but I've long held the belief that at the very least, Quatre is not straight and could very well identify as not exclusively male. Personally I believe he is nothing short of a Kinsey 6/identifies as homosexual based on his interactions in the canon universe. Ergo, you will never see me ship him in a romantic/sexual relationship with a female unless I venture down that dark road into the genre of genderswap fic and I am twisted enough to do just that. xD
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy! ^_^
> 
>  Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

Quatre couldn't say when he began identifying as female at certain times. He was pretty sure it had always been a part of him, though if he was to believe his father, he had made a choice somewhere down the road. Zayeed Winner blamed himself. He cited having far too many daughters as the cause of Quatre's "deviance". Perhaps if he'd given him a few brothers, this would never have happened. For years, Quatre believed him. How could he not? In his young eyes, Zayeed was all-knowing, all-powerful. A hero, a god. For there is always that small window of childhood where a father's approval is everything to a son.

Except, Quatre never got that approval. Even when he did what he was supposed to do. Growing up feeling like nothing more than a disappointment was far more damaging than he'd thought because he still carried that baggage with him at the age of twenty eight. But, he wasn't just a disappointment. To his family, he was far worse. A sinner, deviant, pervert. Quatre couldn't understand why wanting to feel pretty was so terrible. He loved the feel of silk against his skin, the rough scratch of lace. He loved the scent of perfume and lipstick. Loved smelling like flowers and candy. He savored the waxy feel of crimson and fuchsia, his stolen lip rouge, treasured contraband. 

He remembered locking himself in his room when he wasn't required to be with his tutors, or to make an appearance for his father's many friends and business acquaintances. He would roll up the rug centered in the middle of the room and pry the loose boards open. Inside, beneath the floor, were his most prized possessions. Some of it stolen, some bought and given by the one person who accepted him. Amira, the only one of his sisters who didn't believe he was some sort of sexual deviant. She provided him, in secret of course, many of the lovely, frilly things that he so craved. She'd put herself at risk, both from their father's wrath and their sisters' ostracization, in her love and support of Quatre.

It was a debt he could never repay. Amira had been the only thing standing between himself and the very real desire to take his own life. He'd felt so disconnected from the world around him. So dirty, so evil. He'd sincerely believed for a time that the world would be better off without him. 

From within the semi-safety of his room, he would lift the box, a large round hat box covered in a rainbow of flowers, and sift through his treasures with trembling hands. The danger of being caught was an added thrill, pumping delicious adrenaline throughout his body. It took him a while to build up the courage to actually put the items on. Eventually the urge became stronger than his fear and the magical feelings he experienced when he first slipped on a pair of panties. Oh, it was heavenly. It took some adjustments to arrange his genitals in such a way that the front panel of the panties would cover them, but with time, he figured out a few tricks to make it work. He distinctly remembered the first pair he'd ever owned. Pale pink, trimmed in white lace with three tiny pearl buttons down the front. They were special in a way that first times often were. The catalyst that brought him to where he was today.

That first time, he'd wept, curled up with his knees to his chest, his face hidden between them. So elated at how free he felt, but so humiliated at the same time, unable to get his father's scorn out of his mind. He felt sick, like something was terribly wrong with him, and he prayed to Allah to heal him from his affliction. 

Whatever Allah's plans were, they did not involved healing him. His sickness never went away. Only grew as he got older. By the age of fifteen, he had a rather vast collection of bras, panties, stockings, perfumes, lotions, rouges and lipsticks. On his birthday, after he'd dutifully made the rounds with his family, he retreated to his room to celebrate in his own way. Amira sought him out, offering him a small gift, one that she could not give him in the presence of others.

Quatre blinked back tears as he opened the box and discovered a small tin of glittery pink eye shadow, matching lip gloss, and a tube of mascara. He was thrilled to also find a small package of little pink bows. While he'd often brushed his cheeks with rouge and painted his lips, he'd done nothing with his eyes and he was practically bursting with excitement to try his new makeup out. 

Amira smiled at him as he reverently touched the items in the box. "You have such beautiful eyes, Quat. Just remember, makeup is meant to accentuate your natural beauty, not cover it up."

"Thanks, Amira. I can't thank you enough for your support and your gifts and just...loving me the way I am."

"You're not sick, Quatre. There is nothing wrong with femininity. Whether you're a boy, a girl, both, or something else altogether, I'll always love you."

Quatre's chest swelled with emotion and he hugged his sister, feeling so blessed to have her in his life. Perhaps that was Allah's purpose. It was the first time he began to realize that maybe there wasn't something wrong with him. That maybe Allah hadn't healed him because there was nothing to heal. No sickness to be cured from. Being female wasn't a bad thing so why would anything associated with it be bad?

Amira picked up a small bow and clipped it into his hair. "Prettiest little brother a girl could have."

He blushed, cheeks staining a fetching pink. "Thank you." He held up the eye makeup. "Could you...help me? I've never done this before."

Amira helped him apply the eye shadow and showed him how to use the mascara. After rubbing a little blush on his cheeks and brushing some gloss over his lips, he examined himself in the mirror, his breath catching at the incredible transformation. He actually looked like a girl. 

Amira kissed his cheek and left shortly after. Quatre was so fascinated by his own reflection, he scarcely noticed her departure. He felt incredibly feminine, even sexy, his groin beginning to swell beneath his trousers. He quickly shed his clothing and slipped on a pair sheer panties in a soft blue with tiny white bows on each hip. Glancing in the full length mirror, he sat down on his chair, sliding a pair of stockings over his legs and clasped a blue satin bra around his chest. 

He was intoxicated in ways he couldn't even describe to himself when he studied his appearance. He was also undeniably aroused. The tip of his cock peeked out above the delicately crocheted edge of the panties, throbbing in the confines of the opaque material, visible through the fabric. He ran his fingers gently over his sides, relishing in the sexy feeling of being himself. He stroked a hand up his leg, loving the feel of the thin stocking against his skin. 

The urge to masturbate was overwhelming and while he enjoyed stimulation to his cock on most days, in moments like this, he preferred to ignore it. Instead, he focused on internal stimulation, pressing his fingers inside himself and rubbing against the spot that made him bite his lip to keep from shouting. His orgasms were always far more powerful when he pleasured himself this way and he often dreamed of finding a man who would love and accept this unusual side of him. Someone who might even indulge him when he felt particularly feminine.

When the war came, he'd lost hope that any of that would actually happen. There was the very real possibility that he wouldn't even survive long enough to have a relationship. When he met Trowa, he'd felt not only an immediate attraction, but sensed a kind, sensitive heart beneath the layers of stone he'd built to protect a lost and broken child. Trowa was someone who was unaccustomed to having a relationship of any kind, even platonic. The Heart of Outer Space told Quatre that the boy was terrified of being hurt, some sort of past trauma that Quatre wasn't sure he even wanted to know about. It broke his heart to discover Trowa didn't believe he was worthy of friends, or love and he was determined to change that. Determined to make sure Trowa knew he was worthy of love and friendship. 

It worked, too. Quatre was a little surprised at how easily it had, but it did work. Trowa gradually opened up to him more and more and while he was still a little reticent for a year, or so, Quatre could easily sense that Trowa considered not only him a friend, but also the other pilots. Duo was also amazingly adept at observation despite not being an empath and Quatre was thrilled to see him go out of his way to make Trowa smile.

Trowa really did need to smile more. It was rare, but when he did, it was breathtaking. It lit up the whole room and made Quatre's heart swell with warmth and affection. There was love there, too. A deep, profound sense of,  _I can't live without you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you._ He was sure he sensed the same feelings in Trowa, though he worried about the possibility that he was projecting. He knew he would be crushed if the feelings he'd picked up were nothing more than wishful thinking. 

As the war came to a close, the prospect that Quatre would survive to have a relationship began to grow and blossom in his chest. Trowa felt the pull, too. Quatre could feel it coming off of him in waves, so strong he could almost _see_ it. And he did see it in those beautiful green eyes whenever Trowa looked at him. The caring, the need, the _desire_. And Quatre couldn't help but hope they would become more than friends.

His hope was temporarily dashed when the young girl, Dorothy Catalonia, ran a blade through his side. The only thing he could think about was Trowa. Even when his consciousness faded, Trowa was the last thing on his mind. There was a final fleeting thought, an _I'm sorry, Trowa. I didn't make it. I love you_. And then everything went dark.

But Trowa had found him. Knew he was in trouble and went looking for him. Quatre jolted awake when the harsh, burning odor of smelling salts wafted beneath his nose. The first thing he saw was Trowa's worried face above his, like a beautiful angel of mercy and for a brief moment, he thought he was dead and in Heaven. Being cradled in the arms of the boy he loved was like paradise and he'd smiled, wide and delirious at the handsome face that frowned down at him. Then the pain in his side made itself known and he curled in on himself with a groan, hit with the sudden realization that he was still on the Libra and very much alive.

"Easy. Don't try to talk. You're hurt."

He gasped around the agony, needing to know. "How did you find me?"

Trowa was quiet for a long time and Quatre didn't think he would answer. Then, a quiet, "I don't know. I just knew you needed me and -" he stopped himself, glancing at the girl who sat slouched a few feet away. "Can you sit up?"

"I think so." He struggled into a sitting position with Trowa's help, savoring the warm hand on his back to support him. He glanced down to see the alarming amount of blood still seeping from the wound, bubbling and floating in the zero gravity atmosphere. 

Trowa was pulling large wads of gauze out of his kit and Quatre blearily watched him load a syringe, a clear liquid filling the small plastic vacuum. "I need to stop the bleeding. I'm giving you a shot of adrenaline." He glanced up, appearing calm, but Quatre could see the fear in his eyes, feel the acceleration of his heart rate through their strange connection. Trowa was scared, for him, and that made him scared. Was it really that bad? "Do you have any drug allergies?"

Quatre blinked, not following, and belatedly realized he must have already lost a decent amount of blood. "What?"

"Drug allergies. Are you allergic to any medication?"

It took another ten seconds for Quatre to comprehend the question, then shook his head. "No. No allergies."

He watched with morbid fascination as Trowa stuck the needle into his thigh and pushed the plunger. He immediately felt the sudden rush of cognition, the clarity return to him with a touch of unpleasant giddiness. His body trembled while Trowa stuffed the wadded up gauze into the wounds both in the front and the back and clenched his teeth against the pain. Despite the adrenaline, he was cold, like being plunged in ice water. His lips quivered and his teeth chattered and he knew he was going into shock. The ship shook and rattled as explosions went off in some distant corridor, the alarms shrill and nefarious in his ears.

He begged Trowa to leave him behind, knowing he would only slow him down. His chances of surviving were low anyway. The blood loss and the toxins from his pierced kidney poisoning what was still circulating through his body. He'd never make it and he would bring Trowa down with him. He'd never forgive himself. He pleaded with him to take Dorothy and get them both to safety. They both still had a chance of survival.

Trowa, however, refused. His logic was that Dorothy was self-sufficient enough to find her own way out, though Quatre read his true motivations easily. Read the _I'm not going anywhere without you._ Quatre didn't bother arguing, too tired and in too much pain. He squeezed his eyes shut when Trowa lifted him to his feet, looping his left arm over his shoulder. They made their way out, slowly but steadily, and located Sandrock with relative ease. Trowa helped him inside and got him settled behind the controls, but he was hesitant. 

"I can't leave you like this."

"I'll be fine, Trowa. Let's just end this already."

Quatre easily picked up Trowa's sudden urge to kiss him, reading it as well as he could read his own thoughts. He could also feel the reticence, the fear of rejection. Quatre lunged forward before Trowa could retreat and pressed their lips together. He sighed into the kiss when Trowa's hand cupped his cheek, thumb stroking over the skin. When they separated, Trowa's eyes were wide, but Quatre saw a light in them like he'd never seen before and almost giggled, feeling tipsy and not just from the adrenaline and blood loss. 

Trowa's beautiful lips spread wide in a smile that actually reached his eyes and Quatre felt like he could walk on water. Another explosion jarred them and brought them back to reality. Quatre urgently pressed Trowa to get to Heavyarms and watched him disappear around the corridor before he closed Sandrock's hatch. He flinched when the Gundam lurched and gritted his teeth against the pain as he maneuvered Sandrock away from the dying ship. 

They won the war. That was the long and the short of it, though for Quatre it was bittersweet. When they made it back to the Peacemillion and docked their Gundams, the last of his energy had run out. He didn't even have the strength to open his hatch, slumping over in the seat and rapidly losing consciousness again. He vaguely heard the hiss as Trowa tripped the emergency switch on the outside of his Gundam and blinked around unfocused eyes when gloved hands brushed his hair off his sweaty forehead. 

"Quat?" Trowa voice sounded distant, like he was at the far end of a tunnel and he struggled to hear him through the increasingly loud ringing in his ears. "Stay with me, Quat! Come on." He dry heaved when he was suddenly wrenched out from behind the controls and dragged down to the catwalk. He wavered on his hands and knees, his stomach lurching with nothing to expel, and wincing in pain as each spasm pulled at his injury. His fading strength gave out and he dropped face first, the edges of his vision fading. He dimly registered the swooping sensation of being lifted into strong arms, heard the shouts for help, and felt the _thump thump thump_ as Trowa ran with him down the catwalk.

His barely conscious mind had enough cognizance to inform him of when he was laid out on a gurney. There was a cold, tickling sensation that ran up his leg and by the time it reached his thigh, he realized with an icy cold jolt of dread that they were cutting his suit off of him. Injury forgotten, he was frozen with terror when he finally remembered what he had on beneath it and he reached out blindly, trying to push the prying hands and scissors away. He would rather just die than have his secret discovered in such a way. He groaned in helpless frustration at the thought that even if he did die, they would know. He would always be remembered as the boy who wore hot pink ruffled panties. 

His shoving hands were restrained, words of reassurance slipped past his ears and he shook his head in futile humiliation when his suit was finally wrenched open. He would have flushed beet red if not for the simple fact that what blood he had left was too busy supplying his brain and heart with necessary oxygen. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pause, the quiet shock, and eventual snickers and comments. 

To his surprise, there was none of that. The hands didn't pull away in revulsion. They continued on with their work of treating his injury without missing a beat. He recognized the soft, caring voice of Dr. Po, telling him everything was going to be fine. Not to worry. A soft hand brushed his hair away from his face, meant to comfort him and the tension in his body began to fade.

He was still uneasy, mortified, but his mind was already done. Against his will, it shut down in a desperate attempt to keep his body alive.

 

***

 

He regained consciousness in a darkened, quiet room, and instantly noticed the distinct lack of pain. He blinked up at the ceiling, initially disoriented, confused by his surroundings, and unsure what had happened. He attempted to sit up, feeling the stiffness in his side and clarity broke through the narcotic haze. Now he remembered. The sword fight, being run through, his speech to the girl who had stabbed him, his mental apology to Trowa, the certainty that he was dead, then waking up to the terrified face of the boy he loved. He remembered the final battle and guiding Sandrock back to the Peacemillion, but after that his memory became somewhat foggy. What did stand out during that time was being carried in Trowa's arms as he sprinted towards the infirmary and the sudden realization and subsequent horror when he remembered the panties he was wearing beneath his suit. 

There was the scrape of metal beside him and a moment later, strong arms wrapping around him. He glanced up into the gently admonishing face of Rashid. The man shook his head and coaxed him back down to the bed. He went willingly and allowed his friend to place the sheet back over his chest without complaint. He shifted slightly, trying to subtly decipher if he was still wearing his panties. His hand slid into his lap, over the hospital gown, feeling for the unmistakable ridges of the ruffles and finding nothing. He could feel the flush heat up his face, wondering where they were, and more importantly, who took them off.

Another terrifying thought occurred to him. Trowa had carried him to the infirmary. Had he still been there when they cut his suit off him? Did he see Quatre's panties and if so, what had his reaction been?

He closed his eyes and groaned, squirming on the bed in humiliation. How could he ever face Trowa now? The boy probably thought he was a freak. Rashid misread his obvious discomfort for pain and reached for the nurse's button. Quatre stopped him and shook his head.

"No. I don't need more medication. I'm fine." At least Rashid didn't seem to be aware of his preferences. Staunchly Muslim, he was sure the man would not approve. He nodded his head when Rashid asked him if he was sure. "Yes, I just need to rest." He forced his body to settle despite the anxiety churning in his belly, turning his flushed face into the pillow and pretending to go back to sleep. Rashid brushed his bangs away from his forehead with a giant hand, a gesture of comfort, though Quatre sensed he'd mistook his red face for fever and was subtly checking his temperature. 

After a moment, Rashid retreated back to his chair and his magazine and Quatre feigned sleep even though he was far from tired. His mind spun with questions and uncertainties and his muscles were restless with embarrassment. He wondered who else had seen his panties. Duo? Heero? Wufei? Allah, he hoped not. He didn't know what he would do if they knew. What could he do? Laugh it off as a joke? He supposed he could, but that just felt wrong. It wasn't a joke, not to him, and to treat it as such felt demeaning, even if he was doing it to himself.

He realized there was nothing else to do, but admit to the truth if he was confronted about it and deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. His heart ached at the thought that he might lose them as friends and comrades. He was sure if Trowa had seen, then it blew any chances of a romantic relationship. Why would he possibly want to be with someone who was so... _bent?_

Tears stung the back of his eyes and he squeezed his lids shut to prevent them from spilling down his cheeks. Crying would do no good. Eventually, the narcotics in his system took precedence over everything else and he drifted off into a restless sleep. 

When he woke up again, he was met with Duo's smiling face. As happy as Quatre was to see him, he couldn't help but feel disappointed that Trowa wasn't there. Had he come to see him at all, or was he avoiding Quatre because he knew his secret now? He swallowed down his trepidation and forced a smile, carefully gauging Duo's expression for anything that might indicate he knew. He reached out with his Spaceheart, probing Duo's emotions, looking for any sign of second-hand embarrassment, awkwardness, or judgment and finding nothing. Nothing at all. He didn't know and Quatre blew out a breath of relief, his smile coming more easily now. Maybe there was hope that Trowa hadn't seen either. 

"Hey, buddy! How ya feelin'?"

Quatre's voice was a little croaky and he cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm fine, Duo. Thank you."

"You had us worried there for a while, little guy."

Quatre chuckled at Duo's terms of endearments. He always had an extensive repertoire of nicknames for the other pilots. Quatre's usually consisted of "little buddy", "little guy", or "little bro". Always with the "little" even though Duo was the same height as he was and only weighed ten pounds more than him.

"Well, I'm sorry I worried you guys. I think I'm out of the woods now."

Duo grinned and leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Trowa's been a right mess since all this happened."

Quatre's ears quirked at that. "Has he?"

Duo nodded and toyed with the end of his braid. "Yeah. Poor guy's beside himself frettin' over ya. Heero threatened to shoot him in the leg if he didn't eat somethin'."

Quatre couldn't help it. He laughed at that, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "Heero's got one hell of a bedside manner." 

Duo snickered and rubbed his forehead. "That he does. I told him he needs to start actin' like a civilian now and he threatened to shoot _me_ in the leg."

Quatre laughed even harder, doubling over and instantly regretting it. "Ow."

"Careful there, Q. Don't need you splittin' your stitches, or staples, or whatever ya got holdin' yourself together under that gown."

For some odd reason, the word "gown" quickly sobered him up. He stretched the cramped muscles in his abdomen and reclined against the pillows. "Has he been here?"

"Who? Heero, or Tro?"

Quatre didn't want to seem like he was specifically fishing for more information on Trowa, but he _was_ specifically fishing for more information on Trowa, so... "Trowa."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, he's been here. He was here this mornin'."

Quatre mentally kicked himself for sleeping through that and nodded, feeling better. Trowa didn't hate him, didn't think he was a freak. Or at least not enough to keep him away.

Duo shrugged and propped his feet against the metal bed frame. "He should be by sometime this afternoon, or evening. I told him to go take a nap. Boy's dead on his damn feet lately."

Quatre experienced a rush of guilt at that and as observant as always, Duo immediately picked up on it. "Hey. Don't feel bad, little dude. He just cares about ya."

"I know. I care about him. I just hate that he's in this state because of me."

"Well, that's what happens when you lo - care about someone."

Quatre didn't miss the almost-slip, but opted not to comment on it. Hell, even Duo knew there was something more going on between him and Trowa. Either Duo was sharper than Quatre realized, or he and Trowa were about as transparent as Saran Wrap. 

As promised, Trowa returned a few hours later with eyes that were still bleary with sleep. They widened when he saw Quatre awake and somewhat upright and lingered in the doorway as if he was suddenly bashful. Quatre lifted his hand in a wave, a bright smile on his face, which dissolved when he saw Trowa's body language. He gently prodded the surface of Trowa's emotions, not digging too deep, but trying to find the source of his hesitance. He was met with a mental barricade and immediately pulled back, not wanting to push through something Trowa was keeping locked away. 

It made him uneasy and as much as Quatre wanted to know what it was, he refused to intrude on something Trowa wasn't willing to share. He only hoped it wasn't negative feelings that were directed towards him. He forced himself to smile again, speaking through the lump of nervousness in his throat.

"Hi, Trowa."

Trowa lips quirked and he nodded slightly. "Hey. How are you?"

"Better now that you're here."

"That hurts me, Winner," Duo interrupted, feigning offense. 

Quatre laughed. "Sorry, Duo. I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah yeah. I get it. I'll make meself scarce." He got up from the chair and ruffled Quatre's hair. "Rest up, little bro. I want to see ya back on your feet and right as rain. This place gives me the creeps." It was no secret that Duo despised hospitals. Quatre didn't blame him.

"Tell me about it. Thanks, Duo."

"Sure thing." He stepped up to Trowa and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, leaning his head in as if he was about to disclose something private, but his voice was deliberately loud. "Now, go easy on the lad, okay Tro? My little bro here is still recovering so no funny business, ya feel me?" Trowa turned his head, an almost hilarious expression of incredulity on his face and Quatre bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing. "Kitty-Quat here's an innocent one so...wait until the weddin' night, k?"

Quatre threw his head back and cackled as Trowa shoved their braided friend out the door. Duo stumbled into the hallway and turned, his hand lifted in a wave. "Okay, alright. Just...do y'all need condoms, or anything? I got some -" Trowa took a step towards him and Duo backed away with his hands raised in front of him, a wide grin on his face. "Okay, okay. I'm goin'." 

Quatre snickered and shook his head fondly as Duo disappeared down the hallway. Trowa turned from the door, exasperation written all over his face. 

"That boy's got no filter."

Quatre grinned and smoothed out the blankets across his lap. "He means well."

"I suppose." Trowa stared at him and Quatre blushed under the scrutiny. Sometimes Trowa was extremely difficult to read. Even more so than Heero and that was saying something. His one visible eye observed him with an intensity that Quatre couldn't decipher. He cleared his throat and smiled to cover up his awkwardness. 

"Did you sleep well?"

That unnerving gaze finally looked away as Trowa shrugged and stepped over to the chair Duo previously occupied. He lowered himself into it with a grace that Quatre envied. "How are you really feeling?"

"I'm okay. Sore. A little tired, but mending. How have you been?"

"You're not in pain?"

Quatre's mouth quirked up in a smirk. "Are you going to answer all my questions with more questions?" Pink bloomed on Trowa's cheeks and Quatre felt bad for embarrassing him. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's -" Trowa glanced out the window, his eyes catching the distant stars drifting past. "I was worried about you."

"I'm sorry for that, too. Duo told me -" Trowa glanced at him sharply and Quatre hesitated, not sure if he should even say anything. "He said you've been in quite a state lately. I hope you're not exhausting yourself, or making yourself ill."

"No. No, I - I'm fine. I just...needed to know you were okay. I was here this morning, but you weren't awake yet."

"Yeah, Duo told me that, too. I'm sorry I slept through your visit."

Trowa's shoulders lifted, almost imperceptibly. "I've been here every day."

Quatre's brows rose up beneath his hairline. "Have you?"

Trowa nodded, seemingly embarrassed by the admission. Quatre was hopelessly charmed. 

"I'm glad."

Trowa looked up, his eyes a little uncertain and Quatre nodded enthusiastically in affirmation. "I am. I'm glad you're here." He was thrilled when Trowa's lips finally curled up into a smile. He returned it, genuinely happy to share this moment with the boy he'd come to love. 

To his relief, Sally appeared in his room early the following morning while he was sans visitors and handed him his panties with a soft smile. Quatre flushed with embarrassment, but gratefully accepted them. He'd been desperate to know what had become of them, but was too afraid to ask. Sally reassured him that only a tiny handful of people knew.

"And I threatened them with their jobs if they even think about speaking a word of it to anyone. It's yours to tell and no one else's business."

"Thank you, Dr. Po."

She pinched his cheek and left him alone. Quatre turned the panties over in shaky hands and brought them up to his face. It was such sweet relief to have them back. He'd been terrified that someone had been hanging onto them and waiting for the opportune moment to expose him, or blackmail him. The tension drained from his body and he gleefully kicked the blankets down to the foot of the bed and stuck his feet into the leg holes. He laid down flat and slid them up his legs, rearranging the hospital gown back over his lap once they were snug around his hips. He sighed contentedly, feeling lighter than air and finally back inside his own body.

A week later, Quatre was on his feet, not quite back to normal, but moving around at a steady pace, albeit a little stiffly. Trowa hovered over him like a shadow when he wasn't required for some duty, or another and for the remainder of his recovery, they were nearly inseparable. 

Downtime in the rec room was especially enjoyable. Duo would usually put on some shoot-em-up action flick, or some gory horror film and Quatre would eagerly curl up on one of the sofas with Trowa, clad in a pair of hospital scrubs and slipper socks. He still couldn't wear his normal clothes, the restrictive binding aggravating his wounds, and he opted for the more comfortable, loose-fitting scrubs. Beneath those, he wore his panties, enjoying the liberating sensation of being comfortable in his own skin. Even more so when he got to snuggle on the couch with Trowa. Especially when Trowa began to wrap an arm around him. 

It was these quiet times, post war, that Quatre cherished so much. Soon, he would need to return to L4 and pick up where his father left off. He didn't know where that would leave him and Trowa. Trowa had his own obligations to tend to, but he had high hopes that they would be able to work something out. 

Quatre would inevitably have to tell him about his...habit. He really wasn't sure what to call it. He just prayed that when he did, Trowa wouldn't reject him.


	2. History Repeats Itself

Quatre was in a stuffy, florescent-lit boardroom in the middle of a meeting when his watch beeped, indicating an incoming call. He excused himself with an apology and headed to the empty lobby to take it. The admonishment that his secretary knew better than to send calls through in the middle of a conference on the tip of his tongue even though he was secretly grateful. He was sweltering in his suit and the lobby was a good fifteen degrees cooler. He knew the repercussions of wearing a lacy bra and panties beneath it, the sweat making the scratchy material extremely uncomfortable in more ways than one.

He glanced around to make sure the coast was clear and then reached down to adjust himself through his slacks and then around to pull the strap of the g-string out of the crack of his ass. Finally a tiny bit more comfortable, he plugged his headset into the watch's port and shoved one ear bud into his ear. 

"This is Quatre Winner."

"Quatre...it's Heero."

"How are you?"

"Fine. Look, we've got trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Dekim Barton kind of trouble."

He cursed and stepped into an empty consultation office and closed the door. It was no secret among those in the know that Dekim Barton had been causing problems recently and agitating the colonies into resentment against the Earth Sphere using propaganda from the first war. He'd been hoping it would die down, but it seemed that wasn't the case.

"What's going on?"

"Barton's little poster child has abducted Relena and declared war."

"What? That little red-headed kid he claims is his granddaughter?"

"Yes."

He leaned against the door. "Huh. Imagine that." She seemed like such a sweet little girl. 

"Not that sweet."

Quatre blushed, not realizing he was projecting and forgetting that Heero would pick it up like a satellite dish. "Sorry. Guess I was thinking out loud. So what's the plan?"

"I need you to retrieve the Gundams."

" _What?!_ Heero, they're on a one way trip to the Sun!"

"You need to get them back, Quatre. I have a feeling we might need them."

"Damn. Okay, I'll see what I can do. Give me a little time."

"We don't have much, so make the most of it."

"Understood. See you soon."

"Quatre."

He paused with his hand holding the ear bud. "What?"

"I'm not sure how this is going to go. I'm sending you the coordinates where you are to leave Wing for me to pick up should there be any complications."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Just...be careful."

Quatre grinned. "Aw, Heero. You ol' softy."

Heero tutted, but Quatre could hear the amusement in his voice. "You sound like Duo."

He smiled. "You be careful, too. I'll see you soon."

"Copy that."

He pulled the bud out of his ear and tipped his head back with a sigh. Just what he needed. He left the empty office and walked over to his secretary, tucking the headset back into his pocket.

"Everything alright, Mr. Winner?"

"Yes, fine. Look, I'm going to need to take some time off. Can you contact Julia and let her know?" 

"Of course, Mr. Winner. Are you sure everything is alright?"

He turned away and headed down the hall back to the conference room, muttering, "I doubt it." 

 

***

 

"Rashid, I need your help."

The large, gruff man stared back at him through the vid screen and Quatre almost laughed as a bright pink stuffed unicorn bounced off the side of his head with a squeak, followed by a tiny giggle. The Maguanac leader never flinched, or even blinked. Quatre could see streaks of gray at the edges of the man's temples and sprinkled throughout his beard and wondered how much things could change in only a year's time. Rashid broke eye contact long enough to lift the still tittering child and place her into his lap. Quatre waved and cooed at the girl and was rewarded with a drooling, gummy grin. 

"She's getting so big! I think she remembers me," he said as she placed an open palm against the screen, jarring the camera a little. Quatre tapped the screen over her hand and smiled. "Hi, sweetheart!"

"Of course she remembers you! She asks about you all the time."

"She's talking now?"

"Well, in her own little language. She says "Tat" a lot and points at your picture," Rashid said as he pulled the girl's hand away from the screen and kissed it. There was a distinct print left behind. "Sorry, her hands are a little sticky." Quatre was hopelessly charmed. "What do you need help with? You know we're always with you."

"Thank you. I need you to help me retrieve the Gundams."

"What? But, they're heading for the sun!"

"Yes, I know that, Rashid. We need to get them back. There's trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Dekim Barton's alleged granddaughter has kidnapped the Vice Foreign Minister and declared war."

"Damn," Rashid murmured and then blushed, apologizing to his daughter when she gasped and pointed a chubby finger at him. "Sorry, darling. Daddy didn't mean to say bad words."

Quatre chuckled. "Somehow I think she's going to take after her father."

"Bite your tongue."

Laughing, he said, "Alright. I'll be leaving here tonight. I should arrive in Jordan by 1600 hours, local time. We'll devise a plan once I get there."

"Roger that, Master Quatre. See you soon and be safe."

"Always. Bye, Rashid. Bye, peanut!" He waved again and blew the child a kiss. She grinned and returned it, pushing her tiny hand against her mouth and then swinging it out in front of her with a 'Mwah' sound. 

"Yuv you, Tat!"

 

***

 

Quatre took his own shuttle down to Jordan, preferring not to deal with the public at the moment. He had a nasty headache and a sinking feeling that things had escalated. He hadn't been in contact with Heero since the call at his office, but he had talked to Duo who confirmed that the situation was probably going to lead to violence, something they'd all hoped would be avoided. 

Dekim Barton's sermons had spread from near-containment on L3 to the other colonies and Quatre had begun to hear similar chatter on his own colony. According to Duo, there was an operation that existed before the first war that was never initiated. The operation entailed dropping one of the colonies onto the earth if its rulers continued to oppress and persecute them. The project was eventually deemed too barbaric and was scrapped. Quatre and his fellow pilots were the Plan B that was put into action instead of Operation: Meteor. 

Now, Dekim Barton had threatened to launch the operation once again if the Earth Sphere Unified Nations did not comply with his demands. He'd successfully gotten the colonies riled up and ready to fight and Quatre was dismayed at how easily they were swayed. 

His job was to retrieve the Gundams and bring them back to orbit and it was looking increasingly more likely that they were going to be needed. 

"Won one war, just to be forced into another only a year later. Will we never learn?" He asked no one in particular as he landed his shuttle onto the launchpad outside the Maguanac compound. He cut the engines, released his harness, and stood up, reaching behind the seats to grab his things. He didn't need much, but he had a few of his favorite panties with him as he always did when he traveled, including his Lucky Ruffles, the hot pink pair he'd been wearing during the final battle. The pair that had been taken from him after he was stabbed in the side and then later returned by Dr. Po. 

Considering all that he'd survived on that day, that particular pair of panties had been given privileged status over his collection, becoming a personal talisman, a symbol of good fortune. He realized how ridiculous it really was to believe a pair of panties held some sort of mystical power designed to see him through challenges unscathed, but he held onto the superstition all the same. They were the panties he always wore on days where he knew he would be facing particularly grueling challenges, or decisions. 

His muscles were cramped, begging to be stretched after the long flight, but wasn't able to do that in the confines of the shuttle. He hurriedly lowered the ladder, dropped his bag down to the ground, and made his way out of the transport. The hot, dry heat of the desert was a shock to his system after the climate controlled air of the colony and his shuttle. 

"Whew!" He jumped down, already feeling the sweat begin to bead on his forehead and shouldered his backpack. He raised his arms over his head and stretched, unleashing a long sigh of relief, then turned and shielded his eyes from the sun when he heard jubilant shouts coming from the compound. He waved when he saw the congregated Maguanacs just outside the door, watching as two of them broke formation and ran towards him.

He laughed, delighted, when Abdul grabbed him and swung him around, though it was a little difficult to breathe while being squeezed to death. He patted the enthusiastic man on the back and sucked in lungfuls of precious oxygen when he was finally released from the bear hug. Abdul was grinning from ear to ear as he gripped Quatre's face in both hands and planted big, wet smooches onto his cheeks.

"Master Quatre! It's so good to see you! It's been forever!"

In reality, it had only been three months since he'd seen them last, but he wasn't about to argue. "It's great to see you, too, Abdul. How have you been?"

"Good, good," he nodded and pushed his shades up his nose with his finger. "Auda, the old coot here, got married."

"Yes, I know," Quatre turned to the quieter, more subdued man and gave him a hug. "Congratulations again! I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding."

Auda blushed, flattered. "S'okay. I understand how busy you are."

"Well, I loved looking at all the photos and videos." Quatre grinned at Abdul. "I think you broke the record for Most Filmed Wedding."

Abdul waggled his eyebrows and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You want, I can get you a copy of the wedding night. Five hundred dinars a pop - _ouch!_ " He winced and jumped away when Auda smacked him upside the head. 

"You are such a pervert." He looked at Quatre, his face flushed. "I promise you, there is no footage of the wedding night." He glared at Abdul. "Unless _someone_ has a death wish."

"Eh-heh." Abdul rubbed the back of his head. "Footage? Wedding night? I don't know what you're talking about."

Auda nodded. "That's what I thought."

Quatre chuckled and fell into step beside them as they headed towards the compound. "What about you, Abdul? Anyone new in your life?"

Abdul pointed at himself, his expression one of surprise. "Me? Naw. Once a bachelor, always a bachelor."

"Abdul is a pathological ladies man," Auda said fondly.

"I resemble that remark." Abdul glanced over at Quatre. "What about you?"

"New? No. Too busy." It remained unsaid that the only one he was interested in was Trowa. Even after they hadn't seen each other in ten months. Quatre had tried to contact him on multiple occasions, only to have Catherine answer the calls and tell him she'd pass on the messages. He preferred to believe that Catherine was just absent-minded and forgot to actually tell Trowa. The alternative was too painful to think about. 

Still, Trowa had not contacted him of his own volition either, which was disheartening and Quatre found himself wishing he could just let him go. He obviously wasn't interested despite their extreme closeness during and just after the war. He knew, now with the rising tensions and the prospect of another war, it was likely they'd see each other again. Quatre was conflicted because as much as he wanted to see Trowa, he was terrified of being shunned. 

Abdul slung an arm around his neck and sighed. "Don't let yourself get tied down with anyone, kid. There's a reason they call 'em the ol' "ball and chain."

"Don't listen to him, Master Quatre. You know as well as I do that Abdul is perpetually fourteen years old."

Quatre laughed, enjoying their banter. He really missed it. He'd missed all of them and was ecstatic when they reached the compound and he found himself being pulled into warm hugs and declarations that he was also missed. He endured the countless embraces, the kisses on his cheeks, and the ruffling of his hair with a wide smile. At last, he reached Rashid and looked up into warm, affectionate eyes.

"Glad to see you are looking well, Master Quatre," he said in his deep, soothing voice. He held out his arms and Quatre went into them willingly, resting his head against the massive chest. He hummed contentedly at the feeling of being loved and cared for, wishing with a surge of bitterness that he could have experienced these things with his father. He pushed away the knowledge that even Rashid would turn from him if he ever found out about his secret, though he wondered if that was the price of being a deviant. Perhaps people like him didn't deserve love. Perhaps Trowa had sensed that. Perhaps that was why Quatre never heard from him. 

He forced a smile onto his face when Rashid pulled back and held him at arm's length, looking him over with a critical eye. "I think you might have grown a little."

"Have I?" He honestly couldn't tell and no one ever said anything about it. He assumed he hadn't grown, at least not significantly. 

"Yes, I think so. At least an inch, or so." He shrugged and placed a large hand on Quatre's shoulder. "No matter. You're still young. You have time to grow."

"Not that much time anymore. I think the cutoff age is eighteen. I just turned sixteen," he chuckled and let Rashid usher him into the compound, humming in relief when he was met with cool air. "Oh, it feels heavenly in here!" He gave Rashid a sheepish look. "I must admit, I've been spoiled. I've gotten used to air conditioning."

"Do not forget, Master Quatre, that you can endure anything. It was you that crossed the Sahara on foot. Such a journey would have killed a lesser man."

"Yeah, like Auda," Abdul piped up from across the room.

"Shut up," Auda muttered. 

Quatre laughed and looked back at Rashid, his cheeks flushed from the compliment. "Well, it wasn't easy. I'm not sure I could do it again."

"You can do a great many things, young Master. There is a reason the public adores you. There is a reason you were chosen to pilot a Gundam and there is a reason you are our leader."

He smiled and nodded, not wanting to argue. The Maguanacs always talked to and about him as if he was some sort of god which embarrassed him to no end. He cleared his throat. "I'm just going to take my things to my room. Is it alright if I shower? It was a long flight."

"Of course. You needn't ask for such things. This is your home, too."

"Thanks. I'll be down soon and then we can go over the game plan."

"Take your time."

 

***

 

Quatre stepped under the lukewarm, almost cool spray of the shower and tried not to moan as the tepid water washed away his travel fatigue. He didn't know what it was about long trips that just made you feel dirty, despite being clean upon departure. Nonetheless, it refreshed him and cleaned away the sweat that had accumulated during the brief amount of time he was outside and being hugged within an inch of his life. He shook his head and chided himself on becoming soft, so much so that he couldn't handle being in the heat for more than thirty minutes.

_Too much time being spent in boardrooms, I suppose. Better get used to it, pal. In a few days, you're going to be close to Mercury's orbit. You think the desert's hot? You ain't seen nothing yet._

Oh, but he was not looking forward to that. The mission was going to be difficult at best, outright dangerous at worst. He was going to have to don his helmet and spacewalk his way over to the capsule that contained the Gundams. The slightest wrong move and he could end up separated from both ships and sucked into the sun's gravitational pull on a one-way trip to Fry Town. At least that's how Duo had referred to it. 

"Be safe, Quat. Don't want to see you end up a crispy critter. I quite like you the way you are."

Quatre had smirked at him through the vid screen. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Jus' sayin.'"

Still, Duo was right. Though, he didn't think it was the most horrible way to go. If he looked on the bright side, at least he would be remembered as the first human to fall into the sun. There was a first time for everything. Why not go out with some style? He laughed as he washed himself and wondered when he'd become so morose. 

_War will do that to you._

Indeed. He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and headed down the hall to his room. It wasn't anything fancy. There were certainly no luxuries, but it wasn't as if he hadn't "roughed it" before, in conditions that were a thousand times worse than this. He could remember that trek through the desert. The boiling heat of the day, and the near freezing temperatures at night. He'd used the sand to insulate himself from the brisk winds in order to catch an hour, or so of sleep before moving on again. He'd had no food, no water, and had gone right into battle as soon as he'd arrived at his destination. 

Thankfully, there had been a two week lull in between missions. He'd taken full advantage of that, guzzling down gallons of water and eating more than his fill of Auda's delicious cooking before falling into a near coma for several days. He hadn't had a good sleep like that since and was amazed at how refreshed he'd felt once he finally woke up. 

There was a lot of uncertainty about the future. Whether war would break out, or whether there would be a peaceful resolution. Had their luck run out? Would they even survive this time? If war happened, how long would it last? 

Strangely, he could accept the fact that he might die this time, but something he refused to entertain was seeing his fellow pilots losing their lives. Most notably, Trowa. He sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped his feet into a pair of white lacy panties, remembering those wonderful days when he'd been recovering from his stab wound aboard the Peacemillion. It was such a surreal time. He'd survived a near-fatal injury, survived the war, and so had his friends. He could easily say those had been the best days of his life, especially those moments when he lounged on the sofa in the rec room with Trowa's arms wrapped around him as they took some time to just enjoy a film, or a game.  

He'd really believed there was something there. Something significant between them. He didn't know what had happened, or what went wrong. He had spent many months wracking his brain, trying to figure out if he'd done something that turned Trowa off to him, but could come up with nothing. Maybe he'd simply been reading too much into it. Maybe he'd been projecting his own romantic feelings onto the other boy. He could accept the possibility that Trowa only wanted to be friends. It would hurt, but he could accept it. 

But if they were friends, why hadn't Trowa spoken to him in so long? Why didn't he return Quatre's calls? Why was he torturing himself like this? He sighed and pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and a tank top. He didn't know what he was even going to say to him when they inevitably saw each other again. Maybe there was nothing to say. Maybe, whatever it was, was over and that was that.

He slipped on a pair of sandals and headed back down to the common room to catch up with his comrades. Either way, stressing over it would solve nothing. He was just going to have to cross that bridge when he got to it. 

 

***

 

"Go fish!" Abdul shouted triumphantly, slapping his hand on the table. Quatre shook his head and reached over to the pile to swipe a card off the top. It was amazing how a grown man could take such a juvenile game so seriously, but that was just Abdul's way. Auda was right when he'd said he was perpetually fourteen years old. He reminded Quatre a little of Duo.

He held his cards up and peered at Abdul over the top. "How do you even see in here when you wear those things?"

Abdul grinned. "X-ray vision."

Quatre snorted and asked if he had any threes. 

"Go fish!"

"Damn." He reached for the pile again and tucked another card he didn't need into the growing fan in his hand. He glanced around, making sure they had at least a little privacy. It was late now and most of the other Maguanacs had gone to bed. A few were still awake, quietly watching a film. Rashid sat nearby in an armchair with his head tipped back and was snoring softly. "Hey, Abdul. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, kid. You can ask me anything." He leaned back and puffed out his chest. "I am a fountain of wisdom."

Quatre highly doubted that. He leaned across the table and dropped his voice. "How old were you when you first..." he twirled his hand, "you know."

"What, popped my cherry?" Abdul asked, a little too loudly. 

" _Ssh!_ Allah, don't you have an inside voice?" Quatre glanced around and winced when he noticed a couple of the other Maguanacs sending them odd looks. Rashid snorted, smacked his lips, and settled back down again. 

Abdul pressed a finger against his chin. "Hmmm...thirteen...no, fourteen, I think." He propped his chin on his fist and sighed wistfully. "Ah, yes. Brenda was her name. American. She was an exchange student from...Iowa, I believe. She had the longest, most beautiful blonde hair." He pulled his shades down the slope of his nose and narrowed his eyes at Quatre's head. "Close to your color. Blue eyes, red lips. Loved her toes."

Quatre paused from dealing out cards and raised a brow at his friend. "I'm sorry. Did you say "toes"?"

"Yeah," Abdul nodded and sipped his coffee. "She painted them red and she wore these pretty little white sandals and during class, she would cross those sinfully long legs and dangle her sandal off the end of her toes." He pushed his shades back up his nose and sighed again. "Drove me crazy."

"So you slept with her?"

"Not at first. That's the thing with chicks, man. You can't just go up to them and say, "Hey, wanna go under the bleachers and fuck?"" Quatre cringed at the crude language, but nodded at him to continue. "Takes a little wining and dining, if you know what I mean. Then, you gotta start slow, y'know? Kissing, touching. You gotta make your way through the bases -"

"Bases?"

"Yeah, first base, second base, third base..."

Quatre nodded absently, remembering Duo using those same terms when he was talking about his relationship with Hilde. Last Quatre had heard, they'd made it to "second base", whatever that was.

Apparently, Abdul was going to enlighten him. He planted his elbow on the table and began ticking his fingers. "First base is kissing, but with tongue. Pecks on the mouth don't count. Second base is," he wiggled his fingers, "touching. That's when you get to touch the boobs and down in the -"

"Yeah, okay. I get it, thanks," Quatre held up his hand, not the least bit interested in the nuts and bolts of getting it on with a girl. He was smart enough to put two and two together. "I guess, I just wondered how old you were." He shook his head and stared down at the table. "I don't know why I asked."

Abdul leaned over the table and lowered his voice, sounding almost scandalized. "Wait...Are you saying you're a virgin?"

Quatre looked up sharply, then glanced away, his face flushing beet red.

Abdul let out a soft whistle. " _Damn_. And here I thought you had chicks all over you."

Essentially, he did. He just wasn't interested. The media had already begun to sniff him out. It wasn't every day someone as good looking, wealthy, and influential as he was turned down countless advances and proposals from some of the most beautiful girls in the world. The longer that went on, the more the public would start to question his sexual preferences. It didn't seem as if Abdul was aware of the speculation, or if he was, he'd just dismissed them as typical tabloid fodder.  

He shifted in his chair, kicking himself now for even bringing it up. He'd dug himself a hole he wasn't sure he could talk his way out of. "Never mind. I don't know why I said anything. Ignore me."

"Aw, Quat. You're saving yourself for The One, aren't you? That's so sweet," Abdul simpered, clasping his hands against the side of his face. Quatre was convinced that if he yanked those stupid sunglasses off, there would be hearts in the man's eyes.

He shot Abdul a dark look. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not!" Abdul said, a touch defensively. "I really think it's sweet. Look, it's up to you who you give yourself to and when. If you want to wait for the right girl, good on you." He shook his head and gathered up the cards, stuffing them back into their box. "Honestly, you shouldn't take dating advice from me anyway."

Quatre didn't know why, but he was tempted to tell Abdul everything. There was only one other person who did know and that was his sister. For some strange reason, he was desperate, almost dying to know how many of his friends would still be his friends if they knew what he was. It made him sad, a deep sense of isolation that the people he cared about the most didn't really know him and would probably shun him if they did. 

_Abdul, I'm gay. I love men. I want to have sex with men. Actually, only one man. Trowa. Remember him? But I don't just want to have sex with him. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I love him. I'm in love with him, but he won't talk to me. Also, sometimes I like to feel pretty and girly. It makes me happy when I wear makeup and lacy underwear. In fact, I'm wearing a pair right now and you didn't even know, did you? So...now what? Are you still my friend? Do you think less of me? Am I a freak?_

Instead of saying what he really felt, he pressed his lips together and stood up, pushing his chair back against the table. "We should get to bed. We leave first thing in the morning." 

"Roger that, boss boy."

Quatre turned away and headed up to his room, his thoughts drenched in chaos. War was on the horizon. If he died, they would find his underwear and makeup collection and plaster the truth all over the media. As long as he was alive, no one would ever, could ever know who he really was. Not someone in his position. He wondered, not for the first time, if Trowa had actually seen his panties when they'd cut his suit off of him to get to his injury. Maybe that's why Quatre hadn't heard from him. In his mind, Trowa's silence spoke volumes.

And if Trowa, who was so kind and loving, thought he was someone to stay away from, then there was no way anyone else could ever know.


	3. Broken Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaangst. 
> 
> ...With masturbation. ^_^

Quatre wasn't able to see Trowa until after the final battle. At least not in person. He'd been able to witness Heavyarms perform its magic, keeping a watchful eye on it during the fight to make sure he was okay. Though, if something had happened to him, Quatre would have felt it. They kept their communications strictly focused on their job. There was simply no time to catch up. 

There were many losses, but in the end, they won. As they'd done before, they decided that if they wanted a world without war, they would have to remove the tools of war. It was the first time Quatre came face to face with Trowa after ten long months. He'd been hoping for a warm reunion, filled with enthusiasm and hugs, but Trowa stayed a good distance away and was emotionally closed off. Despite the pang in his chest, Quatre tried to remain positive. 

"Trowa sounds like as good a name as any to me," he said with forced cheerfulness. Duo stood between them, almost acting as a barrier though not deliberately. It was Trowa that seemed to be using their friend as a physical shield. 

Duo waved his hand with his typical _que sera sera_ attitude. "Eh, what's in a name? In the end, it doesn't really matter anyway."

Trowa nodded and looked out over the crater where Heavyarms, Sandrock, and Deathscythe once lay, now no more than three piles of ash. "Yeah. You're right, Duo."

Quatre swallowed down the jolt of pain that came with the sense that he was being ignored and smiled brightly. "You guys want to go do something? It's been a while since we've seen each other and were able to talk. I know a great place just down -"

"Ah sorry, Kitty-Quat. I'd love to, but Hilde's waitin' on me. I don't really feel like gettin' my balls busted. Especially since she keeps 'em in that little tangerine hand bag she carries around all the time. And yes, it's _tangerine_. I called it "orange" once and nearly got my ass chewed off."

Quatre chuckled and nodded his head. "It's alright, I understand. Tell Hilde I said hi."

"Will do! See ya around sometime...maybe." He walked away, waving over his shoulder and Quatre's heart sunk. He didn't get to see Heero, or Wufei before they took off, much to his disappointment. Off on their own like they always were. That was three friends down. His stomach churned with nerves as he looked across the twenty foot space between himself and the one he loved. The one he wasn't sure was even his friend anymore. 

He smiled at Trowa and held up his hands. "What about you? Haven't seen, or spoken to you in a while. How've you been?"

Trowa nodded, but continued to look out over the crater, his eyes distant. "Alright."

Quatre waited another few moments to see if he'd say any more. He cleared his throat as the silence grew. "How's Catherine?"

"She's doing fine."

"Oh, that's good." He looked down and shuffled his feet. He wanted to approach, but for some reason was convinced Trowa would retreat if he did. "I tried calling you."

"I know."

Well, that blew the theory that Catherine was just forgetful. There was a distinct lump in his throat and a sting behind his eyes. He pinched himself in the arm, hard, trying to stop himself from blubbering like an idiot. "I missed you. You look great."

"Thank you."

He bit his lip and nodded. "Do you want to go somewhere and catch up? I'm sure you have a lot of stories from the circus. I'd love to hear them -"

"I can't. Sorry."

"Oh." His eyes were getting wetter and he blinked furiously, his fists clenched in frustration because he just didn't understand what was wrong. He chanced a step closer and when Trowa didn't move, he took another cautious one, then another until they were only a few feet away from each other. Quatre stared at his handsome face, wanting to scream, _Just look at me! Why won't you even look at me, Trowa? What did I do?_

"Trowa, did I do something wrong?"

He shook his head, only a minute movement. "No."

"Then...what is it? We were so close and then...what happened?"

"Nothing happened, Quatre."

And that pissed him off because obviously something did. "Don't insult my intelligence, Trowa."

The venom in the blond's normally pleasant voice surprised the other boy and he looked up at him finally. _Finally_. "I'm not."

"So what happened? I - we were so close we were almost - I felt something...between us. I think you did, too. But, even if you didn't, we're still friends, aren't we? Friends talk to each other and hang out and -"

"I'm seeing someone, Quatre."

He froze, too stunned to respond right away. His body felt encased in ice, his heart frosty and cold, lifeless. He opened his mouth, closed it, at a loss for words, then opened it again, managing only a tiny squeak. "Oh?"

Trowa looked away, his face flushed. "Yeah."

Quatre had to look down at himself to confirm there weren't actually a dozen knives sticking out of his chest and was surprised to find nothing. It certainly didn't feel that way. He tamped down on the rising tsunami of agony and despair with all the energy he had within him, feeling utterly drained by the time he was able to school his expression into one of false cheer. "Oh! Wow, that's - that's great! I'm so happy you found someone." _Am I really saying this? Or am I being possessed?_ It stung like thousands of bees with every fake sentiment out of his mouth. It felt like his teeth, his fingernails, every strand of hair, was being yanked out of his body the more he pretended to be happy for him. But there was nothing else for it. Trowa didn't love him, didn't want to be with him. He'd found someone he did want to be with and it wasn't him. He winced as his voice wavered and cleared his throat again. "I'm - I'm really happy for you."

Trowa's head dipped in a vague nod. "Thanks."

"So...who?" _God, Quat! Why are you torturing yourself by asking who? Who cares? It's not you, so what does it matter?_

_Because I need to know who captured his heart. I need to know._

"Her name's Miidi."

"I see." A girl then. Of course. A girl was the only one who could give him what he really needed, what he craved. A home, a family. He tried to picture the girl. He was sure she was beautiful, why wouldn't she be? He tried to imagine what their kids would look like and wondered how much of a masochist he really was.

_I'm sorry, Trowa. I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted._

"Well, I'm sure she's a lovely girl. I'm happy for you both and I - I really wish you the best. I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

Trowa nodded again and turned away. "I really have to go. I'm sorry." 

"Oh, yeah, no. Don't let me keep you. I'm sure she's probably waiting and Catherine is, too. Say hi for me."

"I will. Bye, Quatre."

His mouth trembled as he pulled it into a smile, certain that it looked more like a grimace. He nodded and waved, "Bye, Trowa. Best of luck to you."

He was already walking away. Quatre stared at his retreating back, the tears becoming increasingly difficult to hold down. The first one escaped once Trowa had disappeared from sight, followed by another and another. He sucked in a shaky breath, still trying to hold the dam together with the last fragile tendrils of his strength. 

"Be happy, Trowa. That's all I want. I wish it could have been me. But as long as you're happy, that's what matters. I...love you. I love you so much and I wish you nothing but the best."

The sun was beginning to set, but Quatre wasn't ready to head back to his campsite yet. He walked to the edge of the canyon and sat down on the grassy knoll, his legs dangling over the cliff. He stared at the still smoking ashes that had once been their Gundams. Sandrock had become such a huge part of his life. So had Trowa. So had his friends. Now, they were gone and he was alone once again. 

He'd never told them that they were his first and only real friends. He'd never had any before joining the war. His father insisted there was no time for children's games. Not when Quatre had so many things to learn. Being groomed to run the largest resource satellite company in the world, possibly being considered as a future representative for their colony, there was no room for distractions, or friends, or toys. He'd only had his friends for two years and despite being in the midst of fighting a war, his life had never felt so fulfilled, so...significant. 

In the blink of an eye, it was all gone again. Over so quickly, he hadn't really had time to appreciate it. Now, all he had were memories. They would have to do. There was no time for anything else anyway. It was back to WEI he went. There was damage from the battles to take care of, construction to oversee. It was time to rebuild. 

He remained on the edge of the crater until deep twilight before finally finding the energy to move. He trudged back to camp, too tired to build a fire, and climbed into his tent, crawling inside his sleeping bag. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised at how things had ended. Despite his attempts to stay in contact with his fellow pilots, they had other things going on in their lives. Duo and Hilde were now shacking up and running their own scrapping business. Heero was going to be traveling with Relena, acting as a bodyguard, and Quatre could foresee a burgeoning romance between them. He'd heard Wufei had been offered a position at Preventers and was apparently going to be partnering up with Dr. Po. 

Trowa was going back to the circus and now had a girlfriend. Quatre wasn't so naive to think they'd all remain close, but he wasn't expecting to be kicked to the curb without so much as a, "We'll talk soon!" He dreaded being lonely again. Lonely like he was before the war and lonely like he'd been in the last several months.

Trowa was taken, starting a new life with a girl. And that was that. That meant Quatre had to move on, too. He just wasn't sure how. He rested his head on the foam pillow and stared at the inside of the tent wall, illuminated slightly by the full moon. The songs of the crickets and frogs were soothing to his ears and tumultuous mind and he closed his eyes, allowing them to sing him to sleep. 

The disappointment and heartache would be painful to deal with, but at least he could say he had closure.

 

***

 

He returned home the next day and decided he deserved a pampering. He still felt raw, hadn't slept well in the tent, though it had nothing to do with the inconveniences of "roughing it". It was more the dreams that plagued him in the night. Dreams of Trowa shunning him. Dreams of Trowa asking that Miidi girl to marry him right in front of Quatre. He distinctly remembered one where he was duct taped to a chair and forced to watch them exchange vows. He was unable to close his eyes, or turn his head away. His protests were silenced by the reinforced stitches threaded through his lips. And all the while, his friends pointed and laughed at him as the priest repeated over and over and over again, _If there is anyone who does not believe these two should be joined in matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace._

That was when Quatre gave up on the concept of sleep and walked down to the river bank instead. He sat until the sun came up, tossing pebbles and rocks into the water with his knees drawn up to his chest. 

He ran himself a bath, using his favorite jasmine scented oils and poured himself a glass of Pinot. With Chopin playing softly in the tiny wireless speakers, he sunk down into the soothing heat and inhaled the aroma of his favorite flower. 

After the long battle, the stress of his job before that, and the prospect of finding himself alone again, it was nice to carve some time out for himself and do what he felt like doing. He pondered the possibility of dating though it didn't quite appeal to him yet. The media speculation would continue unless he found a girl to have on his arm, if for no other reason than to get them off his back. He was well aware of the concept of "beards" which were people used by high profile politicians and celebrities who were still in the closet and wished to remain that way. But did he really want to do that? There was, of course, no harm done if the person doing the bearding was aware of the situation and willingly agreed. It was essentially a business agreement. A contract in which the "beard" would have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, a legally binding document admissible in a court of law, that they would not disclose, or leak any information about the other party's sexuality to the press, or anyone else.

He could do that. It would protect him for a while at least. The only problem was, that could lead to new complications. Bearding contracts usually only lasted a few years, but during that time, he would have to dodge marriage questions and pregnancy rumors, then fake a breakup when the contract expired. 

He sighed and tipped his head back onto the inflatable bath pillow. He had a few options. Continue on the way he was and simply not respond to the press' niggling about his romantic life and let speculation continue. Get a beard and deal with having to spend the next few years living a public lie, putting in appearances and pretending he was actually interested in the girl. Or, he could just throw in the towel and come out. In reality, none of those options boded well for him. He was tempted to just come out, sick and tired of the heteronormativity, but that could potentially complicate his life just as much as the other two choices. 

For one thing, his reputation and his position would be at stake and it wasn't as if the media would just decide to leave him alone after that. In many ways, it was juicier than him hooking up with a girl. Scandalous. The media would be even more oppressive than they were now and he could forget about frequenting gay bars and clubs. He would become a major spectacle, his life turned into a circus of homosexual stereotypes. 

He picked up his wineglass and swirled it, inhaling the bouquet of cherries and a hint of "barnyard" due to its age. He took a sip, tasting the fruitful notes and the slight musk of its undertones on his tongue, glad he'd chosen this particular vintage from his cellar. The hot water and the orchestral music playing softly in the background, combined with the fine wine finally began to work its magic on his nerves. He felt more relaxed than he had in months, the tension in his muscles fading, melting like butter.

He had time to come to a decision. He'd hoped that he and Trowa would get together. If that had happened, Quatre was planning on coming out and proudly announcing their relationship. At that point, he really hadn't cared what the media, his family, or the people at WEI thought of it. Now that that was out of the question, he had to pick one of the other options to fall back on. In the meantime, there was work to do. He supposed he could count himself lucky that he was going to be far too busy to dwell on losing Trowa.

_You didn't lose him, you fool. You never had him._

He scoffed and drained his wine glass, feeling bitter and petulant. It hurt. He remembered the way they'd looked at each other. The way Trowa gazed into his eyes, the way he'd touched and held him. Quatre hadn't imagined it. It was all there, obvious even to the people who knew them. So what really happened? Trowa clearly changed his mind, but why? Had Quatre done something wrong? 

_Not like he's going to tell you now, is he? He's already moved on. Time for you to do the same._

He set his glass down and rubbed his eyes, pushing back the tears that wanted to surface. He supposed the only thing he could do was take it day by day and see how things played out. Maybe he'd find someone, or maybe he was destined to be alone. A relationship would be tricky no matter who he was with. He had his other secret to protect. Would he meet someone whom he could share it openly and be loved for who he was? Would he drive away every relationship by having the nerve to be honest about himself? Or would he have to keep it closely guarded and never tell his romantic partner about it, still living a lie and hiding who he really was?

And who could he trust? If he felt comfortable enough to be open with someone about it and it freaked them out, what would stop them from taking it to the press? Would he be forced to require anyone he dated to sign a nondisclosure agreement? The reality just completely sucked the fun out of the prospect of dating. He laughed, but it was bitter, lacking in humor. The truth was, just being who he was guaranteed that he would never have a "normal" relationship with anyone and of course Trowa wouldn't want any part of that. Who could blame him for finding someone else, someone who didn't come with all the baggage Quatre did? 

_Nothing says I love you like, 'Sign here on the dotted line'._

 

***

 

He dried off, hung his towel on the rack, and grabbed the wine bottle and glass before leaving the bathroom, starkers, and heading through the adjoining door to his bedroom. He opened his dresser drawer and picked out a burgundy chemise with matching panties and slipped them on. His skin was smooth and soft from the bath oils and the satin of the chemise felt glorious. He ran a hand up his leg, enjoying the feel of hairless skin. 

He began shaving just six months ago once the hair on his body began to thicken and become more noticeable. He'd invested in laser hair removal two months prior, and was glad he did. There were no longer any bumps, or nicks, or rashes from the razors. Just baby smooth, creamy skin. He'd decided to go all out and have his entire body treated, and though he'd only just begun showing signs of peach fuzz on his face, he'd had that treated as well. It was something he simply did not want to deal with, ever. The fact that he would never have to shave his cheeks, chin, upper lip, and neck was wonderful and made getting ready for work in the mornings a cinch. 

He walked over to his vanity, slid the chair out, and sat down, examining his reflection in the mirror. It really didn't take much to make himself look like a girl. He was already pretty and he lacked the hard lines and edges in his face that his copilots had already begun to develop. Trowa, most especially, was developing quite the masculine, chiseled look similar to what Quatre had seen grace the covers of men's magazines. The soft cheeks of his childhood had thinned out, making his cheekbones far more prominent and his jaw, while still nicely curved, had started to square out a little. He was stunning, if Quatre was honest, and he mourned again for all the things that just weren't meant to be.

Perhaps his own face would do the same someday, but for now, it was soft and pleasantly rounded. The lack of facial hair also gave him the perfect canvas for which to apply his makeup. He realized, as he looked around his room, that having a relationship at all would be a miracle in of itself. His room was rather feminine, the walls covered in flowered paper and his bedding was a pale blue, the top of the comforter overlaid with lace. At the head of the bed sat an abundance of different sized and shaped throw pillows with a variation of lace, ruffles, and flowers. Instead of a manly desk, he had a vanity made of imported cherry and inside was his vast collection of cosmetics. His dressers were filled with panties, bras, stockings, and different types of lingerie. 

Good God, but there was no way he could ever bring a date home without barricading his bedroom door and coming up with some kind of excuse as to why they couldn't go in there. Either that, or he'd just have to take everything that was incriminating out and put it into storage. 

He huffed and shook his head, wondering not for the first time, why he was the way he was. 

But tonight was not for dwelling on such things. Tonight was for pampering. Tonight was for Quatre. He pulled open the drawers on either side of him and selected a tinted moisturizer, a tube of blush, lipstick, and mascara. The lipstick was a deep, rich red. Not something he typically wore, but he'd bought it on a whim right before this second war had broken out, in anticipation of seeing Trowa again. He wasn't actually planning on wearing it for him. It was more just a fantasy that he'd allowed himself to indulge in. One that included getting all gussied up for the man of his dreams and Trowa finding him irresistible, which would inevitably lead to passionate lovemaking on a bed of rose petals. 

Okay, maybe it was over the top, but what were fantasies for?

He massaged the moisturizer into his skin. It had a fair tint to it and also a bit of shimmer which left his face with a pretty glow. He was too tired to go full makeup, but settled on swiping some pink rouge over his cheekbones and brushing some mascara onto his lashes. He finished himself off with the lipstick, dabbing the waxy stick over his lips and pressing them together to blend it in. He stood up, stepped over to the full length mirror, and studied his reflection. 

Like this, he simply looked like a flat-chested girl. His body was petite, almost curvy instead of sharp like a man's. The other pilots, even Duo had begun to develop very masculine bodies, corded with muscle and squared edges. Duo and Trowa had grown the most, a good four to five inches. Heero and Wufei, perhaps due to their Asian ancestry were lagging behind in the height category, but they'd still grown more than Quatre had in the last year. Hair was sprouting on their faces, legs, and underarms, and their voices had deepened quite a bit since he'd seen them last. Quatre's had also deepened, but only slightly. He wondered when he was going to get that inevitable boost of testosterone that would no doubt bring him up to speed with other boys his age. He was sixteen now. Not abnormally behind, but could easily be considered a "late bloomer". 

His father had been tall and very masculine, but Quatre figured he must have resembled whoever had donated the egg to conceive him. He didn't know who she was, or what she looked like, but considering he looked nothing like his father, he assumed he took after her. 

It wasn't that he wanted to be a woman. He had no qualms about being male and even dressing and acting the part when he needed to. He didn't believe he was transgendered, but his sister had once mentioned the terms "genderqueer" and "genderfluid", which he was pretty sure more accurately described him. He figured his burst of manliness would come eventually, most likely within the next two years and while he wasn't adverse to that, he felt like he would almost mourn for the body he had now. 

He still couldn't find words to describe how it felt when he indulged his feminine side, but he knew it was as much a part of him as his leadership skills, or his musical abilities. It was as much a part of him as his blond hair and his blue eyes and even the appendage that rested between his legs. It was elation, euphoric, joy. He felt happy and sexy when he allowed himself to bask in his female side.

And as if on cue, his cock began to throb and swell within the confines of his panties, though not quite visible yet beneath the loose fabric of the chemise. He walked back to his vanity, grabbed his wine glass, and stepped back over to the mirror, watching himself lift the glass to his lips and take a drink. He glanced at the red print left behind when he pulled it away, smiled, and drank again. It was his third glass of the night and his head was now pleasantly fuzzy, allowing him to slip into the perfect mindset for a hot fantasy. 

Typically when he masturbated, it was a quick wank in the shower, maybe a clumsy fingering if he had time in the morning. Moments like these though, were much more special and deserved special attention. These were the times when he luxuriated in the glowing feeling of sensuality and romance, where he slipped into a state of mind that bordered on a pleasant dream. Where his dream lover would pleasure him in ways that made him weep with loss once it was over. 

Of course, that dream lover always possessed silky brown hair and the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen. Before now, the real thing had been a possibility, something within reach. On this night, and for many nights to come, it was no longer attainable. Something only to be savored and cherished in his most treasured fantasies. It would hurt once the come cooled, but it was a drug, a poison he could not escape and didn't really want to. 

So instead of tainting it with reality, he let that depressing knowledge go and completely submersed himself in what would never be. It was all he had left and he would take it. Take it like a starving man gorging on stale bread crusts thrown onto the street by a careless shopkeeper. 

He reached under his bed and pulled out the wooden box containing his vibrator. It was reserved only for special times like this. He opened the box and lifted the toy out, his mind already drifting to a place where Trowa loved him, wanted him, desired him with every bone in his body. He took out the tube of lubrication that was nestled beside it and coated the toy until it was nice and slick, then dropped the tube back into the box and crawled onto the bed. 

His hands shook as he slipped the panties off. His erection sprung free, bouncing against his lower belly. He closed his eyes and opened his legs, not for the dildo, but for his broody lover who devoured him with stormy green eyes. When the toy touched his opening, his mind conjured up his lover's cock seeking entrance inside him. He imagined that beautiful musculature, a work of art with sun kissed skin as smooth as it looked, hovering over him, those eyes looking deep into his own. 

He sucked in a soft breath, mouth falling open as the vibrator slid deep inside and he held it there for a few moments while he adjusted to its girth. When the burn subsided, his legs relaxed and fell open, in his imagination, on either side of Trowa's breathtaking torso. When the toy slid out, so did his dream lover. When it was pushed back in, it was Trowa's hips driving his cock home where it belonged. 

He didn't dare open his eyes as he thrust the toy into his body, not wanting any part of reality invading his most precious fantasy and ruining the magic of it. The vibrator was warmed by his body heat, feeling almost lifelike and he kept it turned off, at least for now, so that he could play out as much of his delusion as he could before the buzzing current forced him to remember that it was not Trowa fucking him. 

He twisted the dildo, the curved tip touching him where he needed it most and he lifted his hips into the stimulation, fucking himself with abandon. Whimpers and pleas fell from his lips, cries of pleasure and declarations of love that would never reach the ears of the one they were meant for. In the fantasy, Trowa was repeating the words back to him between rapturous groans, his hips driving hard and fast into the blond beneath him. It seemed so real that Quatre could almost hear the slap of skin if he concentrated enough. 

He tossed his head from side to side, his skin coated with a thin layer of sweat as his hips jittered and his legs shook the closer he got to the peak of climax. He sucked his lip into his mouth, moaning and slurring in near incoherence, his body just on the cusp of release and needing just one last thing to push himself over. 

He threw caution to the wind and let it all go. "Oh...oh, Trowa. I love you s'much. Fuck me..."

In his mind, Trowa leaned down, whispering huskily into his ear and tickling the fine hairs around it. _She could never make me come like you do._

Quatre's back bowed like a tightened string, going rigid. He yelped as the pleasure reached its overwhelming crescendo and he pushed the dildo all the way in and flicked on the vibrator. His entire body convulsed, cock twitching and shooting liquid heat up his belly and chest. He screamed Trowa's name as his orgasm swept over him, launching him into a dimension where time and space and heartache no longer exist. He panted and mewled his way through it until he'd drained himself out. 

His body melted against the bed and he lay boneless for several minutes as he caught his breath. He blinked his eyes open and the real world rushed back in, bringing the fantasy his mind had created crashing down around him. He flicked the vibrator off and slid the toy out, blushing furiously at how carried away he'd gotten. 

 _God, I'm pathetic. This is how far I've fallen. Getting off to a man who wants nothing to do with me and is probably fucking that Miidi girl as I lay here and recover from the fantasy of him fucking me_. The thought left him feeling raw, hollow, and strangely ancient. He looked down at himself, taking in the hairless skin, the satin lingerie, and the come streaked all over him, and felt like the biggest loser alive. 

He was overcome with a deep sense of guilt and self-loathing. Suddenly hating himself for being the way he was. His sister may have told him he wasn't sick, but he felt sick. He felt like the disgusting deviant he was. He fought back tears as he climbed out of the bed, pulled the lingerie off, and flung it across the room, not wanting it anywhere near him now. He was painfully conscious of the makeup on his face, feeling like a mask of ugliness and perversion, and he rushed towards the bathroom, suddenly desperate to wash it off. 

He tried to avoid looking at his reflection, but the impulse to do so was overpowering. He was met with a parody of his own face, red lipstick and black mascara smeared over his skin. His hair was rumpled from rubbing it over the pillow and he was instantly consumed by a black rage, much deeper than what he'd experienced when his father was killed. It was fueled by shame, humiliation, and self-hatred. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, he unleashed a furious scream, releasing all the agony he felt inside. His fingers curled into his palm and seemed to be driven by some unseen force as it smashed into the mirror, once, twice, three times. He punched at his reflection, lashing out at himself until his reverse image was no longer recognizable. 

He dropped to the floor, weeping and bleeding over the tiles, his hand throbbing with pain though not hurting nearly as much as his heart. He cried himself out until there was nothing left and then washed his face, tended to the cuts on his hand, and cleaned the blood off the floor.

Feeling numb, lifeless, he dragged himself back to the bedroom and flicked off the lights. He dropped face first onto the bed and immediately passed out, the nothingness of oblivion never more welcoming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep don't kill me please!
> 
> Yes, I realize Trowa looks like a real asshole right now. We can only hope he redeems himself. Also, since this is canon compliant and takes place immediately after Endless Waltz, it is likely that Quatre still thinks he was a test tube baby.


End file.
